The Apology
by Annabeth Black
Summary: A bridge on fire, even if the flames have been extinguished, is still a bridge burned. At this point in time the bridge between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper was hopelessly smouldering after the fire Eurus had rained down upon it. On either side the affected parties stared at the threat of complete wreckage before them. There were only two choices left to them now...
1. Chapter 1

The Apology

(Alternative Title: Bridges and Crossroads)

There was nothing Sherlock Holmes could say or do that might make things better. A bridge on fire, even if the flames have been extinguished, is still a bridge burned. It is still a bridge that is charred and dangerous to approach. At this point in time the bridge, the connection, between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper was hopelessly smouldering after the fire Eurus had rained down upon it. On either side the affected parties stared at the threat of complete wreckage before them. There were two choices left to them now:

The first would be to walk away, to forsake the bridge and all it stood for, to go and heal and build another bridge to another person.

The second would be to start clearing up the rubble around them. Slowly but surely they might rebuild the bridge to one another over time. It was possible to reach one another again, to salvage the bridge, but it would be weaker than before. The carnage between them might never be truly repaired.

Molly couldn't live with either of those choices. Like the bridge before them she too was charred and broken. She was scarred like scorched earth. Perhaps in time it might brush off but the devastation would stay with her for much longer. The burns on her heart would never fully heal. She couldn't stand the thought of seeing Sherlock again, not like this. Not after what he had led her to do. She was emotional and weak, as was her right to be, but she didn't want his sympathy or his pity. She didn't want to look into his dark eyes and find herself still feeling all the unrequited emotion that she had been bottling up in secret for years. She couldn't do that to herself. Molly Hooper deserved better.

The idea of walking away though… The idea of turning her back to build a new bridge… it was unthinkable. Despite what a dick he could be, Sherlock Holmes was a good man. He has a brilliant mind but an even greater heart. Molly could see that in the way that he cared about John and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's heart was growing, he was emerging from his robotic casing and that was not something that she wanted to miss. Working with him on cases, exploring the mysteries of the universe, even helping him when he had taken too much, they were all things that Molly didn't want to miss.

There was more to her relationship with Sherlock Holmes than her feelings. Sherlock respected her. He wouldn't have made her confess unless it had been absolutely essential for someone's survival. Sherlock was always trying to save the lives of others, even if he pretended not to care about them. Molly knew that. She had seen him do it so many times now and with every new case he came closer to admitting it. Being there for that, supporting that level of personal growth, was something Molly wanted to do. Not because she felt duty bound in any way to the survival and improvement of Sherlock Holmes, but because she was his friend and being a part of that made her feel good about herself independently of him.

With all of that left though but not said, Molly still found herself with her back to Sherlock and in the centre of a crossroad. Each path before her looked as bleak and miserable as the smouldering bridge at her back. She stood at that crossroad, rain pouring down upon her head as she coughed up lungful's of smoke. She stood in the shit and stared through the swirling grey desperate to find a ray of hope on the horizon that either illuminated the right choice or maybe even a new road altogether.

On the opposite side of that bridge stood Sherlock Holmes, his coat flapping in the wind rising up from the canyon beneath his bridge to Molly Hooper. He stared over the wreckage and through the smoke, trying to get a glimpse of Molly's back.

Sherlock Holmes would never admit it but he did not know Molly as well as he thought he did. She was kind-hearted and an incredible woman in more ways than he could identify. She was complex, not like the other simpletons who he worked with. She had a mind and a life beyond him, which all of his friends did, but not those who had been infatuated with him before. Molly was something special, something different.

It killed him to have hurt her.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes did not know Molly Hooper as well as he would liked to have thought. Despite this, he knew the situation Molly had placed herself in now. He was clever (an understatement but true) and it was easy to calculate the number of choices Molly would have given herself. When having to come up with their own options, most people tended to limit themselves to two under the illusion that it would make picking much simpler. They would blind themselves to a third or fourth option that might exist for the sake of perceived ease. Sherlock would not let Molly fall in to that trap.

But how could he save her? Because Sherlock knew he had to save Molly from the darkness of her own mind and the torture she would inflict upon herself. Every second he wasted being somewhere else, doing something else, and not fixing the situation Molly Hooper fell into greater danger. Death was so final but inner self torture could last a life time. That was probably worse than any threat to Molly's life the Eurus could have made.

Sherlock was hardly one to act on impulse. All of his decisions and calculations were thoroughly explored in his Mind Palace. This one was no different. It took a bit longer this time to find the answer because of so many variables that he did not have the capacity to calculate for. In the end it didn't really matter. He knew what to do and his mind was easily set.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and silently prayed his plan would work. One. Two. Three. His eyes opened as the smoke began to clear. He could see Molly in the distance, wavering in her choice. His mind made up, despite the danger, Sherlock began to run across the damaged bridge to her.

In reality there was no bridge and no crossroads. The wreckage between Sherlock and Molly was not something that could be physically seen between them by outsiders. It was all a matter of the heart and of the mind.

Nevertheless, Sherlock still ran to Molly. He leapt up from his sofa in Baker Street, thundered down the stairs and only just remembered to grab his coat on the way out as he exploded into the street. It didn't take him long to flag down a cab and get in. Before John has returned from changing Rosie's diaper in the bathroom of the upstairs flat Sherlock was well on his way to Molly Hooper.

Molly lived alone in a comfortable sized house in a decent part of London. She kept everything pristine white and clinically clean not because she had OCD or had nothing better to do. Molly liked to be reminded of the labs where she worked. To her the bright white surfaces produced a homely feeling and she wasn't one to mind doing an extra bit of cleaning to preserve that feeling. Anyone would have forgiven her for letting it get a little dirty every now and then. Molly did live alone after all. That never stopped her from clearing up spills as soon as they happened or dusting the surfaces the second they seemed a bit gritty. Alone or not, Molly kept a tidy house. It was just how she was.

Molly was definitely alone. So painfully alone.

She hadn't intended to be. In fact, she had asked several friends to come over for a chat and to keep her company. It would have been nice to talk to someone who didn't personally know Sherlock, to unburden her embarrassment and self-loathing alongside a glass of wine to a trusted friend. But everyone was busy. Always busy. Work. Kids. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Fiancé. Family. All of the important excuses not to come see Molly in her hour of need.

As she got more and more desperate for human contact, Molly turned to older friends from school. Most didn't respond. One prick, a man named Steven, told her to "have a drink and a shag to get over it". He didn't even fully understand what "it" was, having the emotional intelligence of a brick.

Full of regret for having even asked anyone for help in the first place, Molly threw her phone down into a pile of sofa cushions and sat with her back against the living room door. She propped her elbows up on her knees and rested her heavy head in her hands. Somewhere in the back of her mind thoughts about having a drink stirred but Molly didn't follow them. She had seen enough in her life to know that this was how substance abuse started. She was stronger than that and would rather feel the sheer raw force of her emotions than dull the pain with a glass of wine. She could handle this. She was strong enough to get by without alcoholism. She was better than that.

A ring of the doorbell startled Molly out of her pose. As she jumped her limbs felt stiff and sore. How long had she been sat there? Longer than she had thought, quite clearly, or else she wouldn't have ached in that way. The doorbell rang again causing Molly to groan. Grabbing the doorframe, she hauled herself up. As the pins and needles crashed over her, Molly's head swirled where the blood rushed too it. She paused to gather herself for a moment but the doorbell rang a third time.

With a slight slump in her shoulder Molly walked to the door. She sincerely hoped it was a friend. It wouldn't be impossible to believe that someone she knew had sense her distress and consequently changed their mind to bring her some TLC and a bottle of rosé. The more likely alternative, Molly pessimistically thought, was that the neighbours' kid had thrown her ball over Molly's fence again or it was some sort of salesman. Whoever it was, their face would be a refreshing break from her solitude. Perhaps she ought to go out for a drink or a meal. That might be nice. It could relieve her feelings of loneliness even if she didn't have anyone to sit with her. But it might look a bit sad so perhaps a trip to the shops would be better suited.

Lost in her own thoughts, Molly opened the door without bothering to look through the peephole. Her mistake.

Sherlock Holmes stood on Molly Hooper's doorstep in the crisp afternoon air. It wasn't raining as it should have been, not like it was in Molly's head. The sky outside had clouded over into a cool grey blanket but the sun illuminated them causing the world out there to be too bright. It hurt her eyes to even look past Sherlock. It hurt more to look at him.

"Molly, I-" but Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence as she had already closed the door in his face.

Molly wanted to move. She wanted to turn away from the closed front door and retreat to another part of the house. She wanted to move far away from Sherlock Holmes and whatever pitiful excuse for an apology he had brought to offer her. Molly Hooper wanted to move away but she didn't. Instead she stared at the back of the door. She could see Sherlock's outline through the glass. He wasn't leaving.

"Molly, please. You don't have to let me in or forgive me. I just want you to listen." Sherlock called through the door. He sounded frustrated but not in his usual manner. He was more desperate than she had ever heard him. It was so unlike Sherlock but it was all him. No one was putting words in his mouth this time.

"You've done enough." Molly was barely able to choke out the words loud enough for Sherlock to hear. She didn't want to talk to him. Not now.

"No, Molly, I haven't. I have never done enough for you which has been horribly unjust of me, especially as you've always been there… you've always pulled through for me Molly and I have not been a good friend back to you. Even if you don't want to hear it, even if you send me away afterwards to never speak to me again, I owe you this much." Sherlock spoke fast and urgently, not in an attempt to prove how clever he was or how fast his mind worked. He had to say what he needed to say before she cut him off. Molly had to hear the words he had for her. It was important.

"That may be Sherlock, but…" Molly clenched a trembling fist. She stared at it rather than the silhouette of the man outside her door. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now." She turned her back but didn't walk away as she should have. Her feet were rooted to the spot as if glued there.

"Please. Please don't go just yet. Molly, I am so sorry for hurting you. Please just let me say sorry." Sherlock begged.

Molly didn't move. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak either. Her throat felt swollen and burned as though it was on fire. She was holding back sobs but not tears. Her eyes were still dry. Her fist still trembled. The desire to flee still consumed her, yet Molly Hooper did not move.

"Molly, _please_ ," Sherlock's voice cracked a little with his second word. He stopped and coughed to clear his throat before continuing. "Molly, I am, for lack of a better term, a dick. I don't use the term lightly. I don't like to swear. It's common and beneath someone of my intellect- I'm getting off the point. The point is that I am a dick. I have treated you terribly over the years. I have analysed you, taken you for granted, and not displayed the appropriate level of interest in your personal life that you deserve. I have used you for my own purposes and not offered you a single scrap of help in return. I've embarrassed you, neglected you, and been a completely insensitive tool with regards to your feelings towards me. My list of crimes against you is a long one yet you have still been good to me, remained my friend… cared for me when really all sense dictates that you should have abandoned me long ago.

"Molly, I… There's nothing I can say or do to earn your forgiveness. After that phone call, what I put you through… If I told you why, what I was trying to do, you would never believe me. You-"

"Try me Sherlock," Out of nowhere Molly seemed to have found her voice. It waivered angrily but it was strong and clear. "Tell me what you could have possibly achieved by making me confess."

"You were in danger. Someone dragged you into a sick experiment designed to hurt us both. I was lead to believe your house was rigged with explosives that would detonate and kill you unless you said the trigger phrase 'I love you'. If I told you there what was happening you'd be killed. Molly, I never intended to hurt you. I was trying to save your life." Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt such terrible guilt, it was as though he had allowed Mary to die all over again.

"There were no bombs, Sherlock." Molly was sceptical of Sherlock's story. It was her house, she cleaned it every day. She had burglar alarms. If anyone had been there, if anything was out of place, she would have known about it. She would have been able to sense herself in danger at the very least. Sherlock was lying.

"No, there weren't. I didn't know that. I was part of an experiment where I only knew what I could deduce and what I was told. She told me there were bombs Molly. She said you would die unless I got you to say those words." Sherlock's voice lowered in volume but the urgency, the desperation for her to understand, it was still there.

"She? Who's she? What's this experiment?" Molly asked aggressively. She turned back towards the door with half a mind to wrench it open and yell in his face. But what would that achieve? Besides, she couldn't stand to look him in the eye yet. Not when it felt like he was lying to her.

"I- I have a sister. She's not… She was bad. She took Mycroft, John, and I prisoner. She made us run through her experiments with no regard for lives lost or people hurt. I had already failed to save five people Molly. I failed. I know I hurt you but she said you would die too and I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you because of me. There was a coffin just the right size for you and when I saw it… Molly, you have to understand that I just wanted to save your life. What I did was selfish but I made a judgement call that living in a world where I hurt you, living in a world where you were alive, was much better than living in one where I had caused your death. It was a selfish choice but it was the only one I could even think to make."

Molly had not been deaf to what Sherlock said. She could almost believe him but something didn't sit right with her.

"You don't have a sister."

"I do have a sister. Her name is Eurus and she is a year younger than me. She was locked up a long time ago because she was bad." Sherlock admitted.

"She _was_ bad? Is she dead?" Molly asked in a tone much sharper and harsher than she had meant to.

Sherlock hesitated before answering. "She… she's being helped. I'm helping her learn to be… to be better." He had to choose his words very carefully. Things with Eurus were not as straight forward as he might like to believe. Sherlock wouldn't lie to Molly though. He owed her the truth and he was going to give it to her.

"I don't believe you." Molly turned away again.

"Molly, please. Just ask John." Sherlock felt anguish. The one thing he liked to think about his relationship with Molly, as messy as it was, was that he always told her the truth. She was the only one of his friends who knew he was alive after the incident with Moriarty on the rooftop. She was the one who knew what he had taken and how much. He had always been honest with her. Molly had to know that.

"No, Sherlock. I've had enough of whatever this game or experiment is. Get off my doorstep and leave me alone."

And with that Molly Hooper walked away.

Sherlock didn't move at first. He considered walking away. He thought about returning to Baker Street, to John who was probably wondering where he was. Sherlock didn't go though. He wasn't finished here and he would not move until he was done speaking to Molly. He wouldn't force her to listen though. He wouldn't break in to the house or demand to be heard. Sherlock believed that Molly would return to listen to him. It was a belief that he wanted to feel firm in but there was a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. Nevertheless, Sherlock Holmes stayed exactly where he was, determined to see things through until the end.

In her kitchen, Molly filled the kettle and set it to boil. She then switched the kettle off again and fetched a wine glass from her cupboard. As she went to the fridge she thought better of it and put the wine glass back, swapping it for a regular glass. She filled the glass with water from the tap and took a several large gulps too quickly. It left her feeling ill. Or perhaps it wasn't the water but Sherlock who made her feel sick to the stomach. It was hard to tell. Setting the glass on the counter top, Molly suddenly felt dizzy. She placed a hand either side of the glass, holding herself up while the world teetered and spun about her.

Thinking logically, she looked over to the table and considered sitting down. It was too far away though and she didn't feel like falling any more. Instead, Molly let go of the counter and turned to slide down the cupboards into a sitting position on the floor much like the one she had adopted in the living room. The floor tiles were cold and hard against her backside. A handle from the kitchen drawer poked into her back. It was immediately much less comfortable than she would have liked but the mild pain was a distraction from the thoughts whizzing through her mind.

There was no way Sherlock had a sister. It might have been possible but it made no sense. Then again, he never spoke about his family. The only reason she knew about Mycroft is because he provided her with resources during Sherlock's fall. There was so much of Sherlock still a mystery to her, why not throw an evil sister in to the mix? Still, it felt too _convenient_. It felt too much like a lie that she shouldn't have to accept and swallow. He said he owed her the truth and he did. This could not be the truth. She didn't want it to be.

So there they were. Sherlock running across a bridge that crumbled beneath his feet with each passing step. Molly with her back to him, ignoring Sherlock's calls to her. The rain poured on them thick and heavy, almost entirely obscuring Molly from Sherlock's vision. Without her help the ground beneath Sherlock's feet would crumble away entirely, plunging him in to the vast darkness beneath. This was where they were at. This is where they needed to recover from, if recovery was possible at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly Hooper was not one to be knocked down easily. She may have been small but her character was much mightier than her physique. Had Sherlock humiliated her, lied to her, and darkened a series of already bad days? Yes, that was an undeniable truth. She knew deep in her heart that he'd had a good reason for what he had done. She knew deep down that her sacrifice had probably saved the lives of others in some sort of sick twisted game. That didn't make it hurt any less. But was Molly going to let that keep her down? No, she was not. Sherlock could stay on her doorstep for all she cared but Molly herself was not going to remain on the floor. She sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. She hadn't been crying so much as her eyes were streaming from being open and unfocused for so long. Crying over the actions of Sherlock Holmes and the evil people of this world was pointless now. It wasn't going to bring her anything worth having.

With that thought, Molly clambered to her feet and began to do whatever little odd jobs needed doing. She refilled Toby's cat food, washed a couple of stray dishes, emptied the bins out to the back of her house, and began dusting. She didn't particularly like doing the jobs or working in silence but she didn't want to hear the repetitive soulless tunes of the radio or the interspersed snippets of doom and gloom news that accompanied it. Nor did she want to turn the TV on because anything worth listening too was also worth watching. Molly wasn't in the mood to sit still and numb her mind to the outside world just yet so she opted for silence instead. Well, it wasn't really silence, was it? She could hear the cars out on the surrounding streets, the neighbours' kids playing ball in their garden a few doors down, the gurgles and hums of the radiators in her home. All the little sounds of life were there, all she had to do was listen.

A knock on the door startled Molly out of her distractions, nearly causing her to knock a clock off of the shelf she was dusting. Molly's first thought was that Sherlock was back or was attempting to get her to talk again and so she was inclined to ignore it. Molly carried on dusting but was again interrupted by another knock. Perhaps it wasn't Sherlock. She honestly had no idea whether he was still out on her front doorstep or not. Molly wasn't afraid of opening the curtains and looking for him, she just didn't want to know. She wanted to push Sherlock as far out of her mind as she could so that for once she might find herself at peace. She just needed some Molly-time. No Sherlock, no interactions, and certainly no knocking on the door.

The knocking did not stop though.

With a sigh Molly set down her duster and marched to the front door.

"Sherlock, I-" Molly started in an angry and harsh tone unusual for her but she stopped speaking altogether when she saw who was on her doorstep.

Now, Molly was not the neighbourly type. That wasn't to say that she was completely antisocial to the point that she hated the neighbours she never saw. It was just that she never really offered more than a polite hello to those living around her. They were all married couples with children ranging from toddlers to adults in their own rights. Molly didn't have anything in common with those people and so had no business with them beyond the occasional greeting.

The person standing on Molly's doorsteps was one of the friendlier neighbours from across the street. It was little old lady with a tight white perm who always asked after Molly's cat and whose name Molly had missed the first time she'd heard it and was too embarrassed to ask again years later. She was a lot shorter than Molly, largely because she held herself with a hunched back and a bowed head. It looked a lot like she was trying to curl herself into the foetal position even as she shuffled along the road wheeling her tartan trolley bag. The trolley bag was absent today and clearly her neighbour had come across the road from the middle of doing something in her home as she wore nothing but a plain dress, an apron covered in cartoon ducks, and some fluffy cream house slippers. She was quite the sight to behold, particularly with the most serious and concerned face carved in to her weathered features.

"Now I haven't called the police yet because I didn't want to assume but this man has been loitering on your doorstep for too long for me not to intervene," Her neighbour didn't even bother with the usual friendly hello or chitchat. "Is he harassing you, my dear?"

"I can hear you, you know." Sherlock pointed out, not having moved from where he was leant against the railings alongside the front steps.

"I- Um-" Molly's cheeks flushed red as she stammered. "I didn't realise he was out there. Come on in Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow behind the little old lady's back at Molly. In response she pressed her lips into a tight thin line and nodded as her neighbour turned to look at Sherlock. The eyebrow dropped and Molly nodded, trying her best to hide her displeasure. Had it been anyone else Molly might have responded differently but there was something about older women and how judgemental they seemed that motivated Molly to lie through her teeth.

"If you're sure dear," Molly's neighbour pursed her lips and gave Molly a meaningful look down her nose.

"I am, thank you." Molly nodded earnestly, desperate to get rid of the old biddy.

"Next time ring her home phone." The little old lady rounded to snap at Sherlock.

"My fault. No phone." Sherlock forced a grin that showed so much teeth it forced his eyes to squint.

"Well," The old woman blustered but Molly cut her off.

"Thank you, again. Have a nice day," Molly gave a curt nod and promptly shut the door before rounding on Sherlock. "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing but once she's gone back into her house you can leave."

"Molly, please-" Sherlock reached out to his friend but she swatted his hand away.

"No more Sherlock. I _know_ you had your reasons, 'noble' or otherwise, but I am _done_. I don't want to hear it. Not right now." Molly's voice waivered as she quivered with pent up rage.

Sherlock could feel the ruins of the bridge trembled beneath his feet. Time was of the essence but at the same time, one wrong move and Molly would send the wreckage of their relationship tumbling mercilessly in to the abyss below.

"When then?" Sherlock strained to keep his voice at the regular tempo and pitch.

He was the one to push people away. He didn't need anyone else, Sherlock knew this from past experience. Cutting people out – at least by choice – was painfully simple. Well, as long as it wasn't John or Mrs Hudson. Mycroft was questionable but who really needs big brothers anyway? Losing Mycroft wouldn't exactly be a tragic loss. Losing Molly on the other hand, that was a travesty. Sherlock had never even entertained the idea of pushing Molly away. She was far too useful.

That said, Sherlock was nowhere near as useful to Molly as she was to him. What did Sherlock ever do for her other than cause her emotional turmoil? Though he had never extensively considered it before that moment, it dawned upon Sherlock that Molly might indeed be better off without him dragging her down. If she realised this then it was entirely possible she would remove him from her life permanently. Molly unknowingly held explosives in her hand; explosives she could throw at Sherlock and detonate whilst he still ran across the bridge. All she had to do was say one small word and their entire world would go up in apocalyptic flames.

How had he let this happen? Sherlock wanted to beat himself. Kind, sweet Molly... Caring Molly. Clever, brilliant, brave Molly. Sherlock had ruined her when it came to their relationship. It was too late to make himself indispensable to her. He had failed her in every way and yet in spite of this Eurus had targeted her anyway. Sherlock had failed his friend and whatever she said next, he almost definitely deserved.

"I don't know. Maybe never. Maybe tomorrow, although I doubt it will be that soon. Whether you meant to or not, you hurt me Sherlock. I need time to grieve. I will hear what you have to say when I'm good and ready. Until then all you're doing is making things worse by being here." Molly replied curtly. She had no intention to sugar coat the truth. She was too drained for that in the moment.

"I see," Sherlock's mind was reeling as if she had dealt him a mental blow. "I apologise for... for making things worse. I only wanted to fix things between us. I guess..." Sherlock trailed off.

Molly stared him down, arms folded tightly across her chest. Sherlock opened his mouth to finish his sentence but decided better of it. As instantly as he had wanted to run to her, Sherlock found himself consumed by the desire to run far, far away from where he was. Without so much as a final "sorry", Sherlock swept past Molly and swiftly exited her house.

Molly stood in the middle of her empty hall, conflicted. Part of her wanted to hear him out, to yell and scream and be justified in her anger at him. Another part wanted to apologise to him, not because she was unjustified but because now she was hurting him back. Two wrongs don't make a right after all. More than anything though, Molly simply felt drained. It might have only been early afternoon but at that precise moment Molly had no fucks to give, it wasn't as if anyone was there to judge her. With this thought in mind she ascended the stairs to bed, praying she might finally get some piece of mind in the form of sleep.

Outside Sherlock turned his collar up against the chilling breeze and shoved his hands deep within his pockets. He surveyed the street, his head following his gaze. Upon spotting an idling unmarked car at the corner of the street, Sherlock purposefully strode towards it. Of course he knew Mycroft was still keeping tabs on him. Had he been hurting in regards to another matter, Sherlock would not have thrown himself into the backseat of the flunky-driven vehicle but Molly's rejection had caused his blood to boil and it was all Mycroft's fault.

"This is all your fault!" Sherlock yelled, slamming his fist down on Mycroft's desk.

"Calm down, brother mine. I fail to see how this was my responsibility whatsoever." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, adopting a stance of innocence even though he perfectly understood the reasoning behind Sherlock's accusation. Had he been in the right mood Mycroft might have even been inclined to agree with his younger brother. As it was, Mycroft was not exactly in the most cooperative of moods for reasons he was contractually obliged to keep undisclosed. Being in such a state didn't exactly endear Mycroft to his younger brother's temper tantrum.

"Don't play games with me Mycroft!" Sherlock snarled. His eyes flashed dangerously but Mycroft wasn't moved by his younger brother's primal display of emotion.

"She said she understood you had your reasons and that she would forgive you in time. Just be patient." Mycroft shrugged. His head tilted to the side ever so slightly as his thin lips pressed together in a wonky smile that he had intended to be sympathetic. It was really just hard to look at and came across to Sherlock as patronising and taunting more than anything else.

"She won't forgive me." Sherlock muttered, retreating to the wall. Sherlock leaned back and had half a mind to swat the ugly looming painting beside him off of its hook. Nothing would be gained from an irrational, childish move like that but Sherlock felt the burning desire to lash out and do it anyway. Only pride and the thought of Mycroft lording it over him stopped Sherlock from indulging in his wish.

"Why do you think that?" Mycroft raised a dismissive eyebrow.

"I have never treated her the way she deserves. Even someone who was blind and drowning in infatuation would know better than to let me back in to Molly's life. I am not worth the- the-" Lost for words, Sherlock swatted out angrily at the painting beside him. Much to his dismay the damned great thing didn't so much as budge an inch.

"I had to have that stuck down. For some reason, those petty enough to be prone to emotional outbursts seem to like knocking that painting off of the wall. I quite like that painting though so I had to take preventative measures." Mycroft looked so smug as he managed to slip an insult at his younger brother in to the conversation. Sherlock found himself tempted to fly across the room and punch his brother square in the jaw. He resisted though, wanting help more than the adrenaline rush accompanied by physical violence.

"You have to help me." Sherlock insisted through gritted teeth.

"I don't _have_ to do anything." Mycroft replied snarkily.

"Yes, you do," Sherlock insisted. "This is all your fault."

"Once again," Mycroft began with a sigh. "I fail to see-"

"Eurus is your fault," Sherlock cut his brother off, anger crashing through his veins. "You knew what she could do and you gave her every opportunity to do it. I don't even need to explain how because you _know_. I'm not an idiot Mycroft. Not only is your guilt visible from a mile away but there's evidence of it everywhere. The notes on your desk with her victims' family details like addresses and phone numbers are the most glaringly obvious example but I don't need to go on. You may be in denial but your agitation and attempting to blow this off is simply laziness. You may be tired from trying to make amends and put things right but you are not done yet. Molly was hurt too and you owe it to her to fix the damage that _you_ are responsible for!"

In the wake of his rant, Sherlock was left in the middle of the room panting heavily. He glared at his brother, head statuesque in its stillness as his chest heaved up and down. He was right and both brothers knew it. Mycroft was not inclined to admit this though. He looked his younger brother up and down, leaning back in his chair to give a false air of relaxation.

"Take my dear brother home." Mycroft spoke around Sherlock to address his lackey waiting in the doorway.

"What?" Sherlock growled.

"You're dismissed Sherlock." Mycroft seemed so blasé which only served to further infuriate Sherlock.

"You can't dismiss me! I'm your brother, not some underpaid employee!" Sherlock shouted.

"Actually, you'll find I can." Mycroft nodded to one of his said underpaid employees who walked forward and placed a firm hand on Sherlock's arm.

With an incredibly rude comment, Sherlock jerked his arm out of reach and stormed off out of Mycroft's office. Even though he was out of sight Mycroft could still hear his brother's verbal abuse as well as several distinct crashes. With a sigh, he waited until the sounds of Sherlock's chaos had faded into a ringing silence before pulling his mobile phone out and dialling one of his more frequently contacted numbers.

"I need your help fixing a Sherlock problem."


End file.
